Four of a Kind
by novizia
Summary: The last High King of the land has died after returning from his recent conquest, and he named no successor. In the absence of an heir, the realm has been divided into smaller kingdoms amongst his four most trusted generals. There is peace, for a time, but a struggle for power looms on the horizon… (Medieval Cardverse AU. Pairings include USUK, GerIta, and more. Rating may change.)
1. Let the Games Begin

**Four of a Kind**

_"When you play a game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground." - George R.R. Martin_

* * *

The air was thick with incense and body heat—there were too many panicked men packed around the king's bed. One of the servants stood off to the side, waving a giant fan in order to stir some of the air and cool everyone off. It wasn't working. Not that it mattered. There were more important things to be concerned with.

The king was dying. He had fallen sick shortly after returning from his campaign overseas and none of the traveling physicians saw to his well-being on the voyage back. He looked so tired and sick. He could barely keep his eyes open. Every time his body racked with a wet cough, the priest muttered a few words and spread more of the incense.

Herakles wished he wouldn't. It only made things worse for their beloved king.

He even thought to suggest it to the priest, but he had been anchored to his post at the head of the bed by the king himself. Every time Herakles moved even in the slightest, the king's hand pulled gently on his fingers as he groaned tiredly. _Don't go,_ he could almost hear his king saying. _Don't leave me, Herakles._ The exhaustion in his lord's eyes made him stay put, and he answered with a reassuring nod. After all, he was a lowly bard—a peasant in the king's house—and he was bound to his lord's bidding.

The other men muttered amongst themselves, their voices hushed and worried. The king's generals stood in the front of the crowd of men, squabbling. They sounded a little like chickens, sometimes—only in the way they debated over the future of the kingdom. Perhaps more like vultures, then, Herakles thought dryly, squabbling over a man's deathbed.

"Did he name an heir?" whispered one of the louder generals. Herakles had seen him very often at court. He never went anywhere without the glittering axe at his side, and he always had to be talking to someone. _Francis_, Herakles placed in his mind. He watched him carefully as he snaked through the crowd to meet with his fellow generals.

The tall one he stood next to, Ludwig, simply shook his head without saying a word. Francis continued, hungry for conversation, "What will happen if he passes, heaven forbid?"

"Then we will meet and find a solution, Francis," Ludwig hissed in response. His stern, blue eyes never left the king's body. Herakles felt a chill run down his spine.

The king coughed again, louder this time, and the priest muttered more chants. Herakles said nothing, and instead placed another hand on top of the king's. His subtle action was met with a tired, but smug smile.

After a few long, painful minutes, the king rasped, "I…"

The crowd jumped at the sound of their king making any kind of sound that wasn't coughing or wheezing. The generals, of course, were the most eager to hear what the man had to say. Ludwig leaned in closer and looked the king in the eyes, "Yes, Majesty?" The men waited around the deathbed for something—anything—that would guide them in the right direction. However, the king fell back into his shallow, sickly breaths and closed his eyes again.

One of the other generals, the youngest of the four of them, sighed with worry, "This is terrible…" Herakles furrowed his eyebrows. He sounded like such a child. He was still unsure how a man so young and so fresh to the battlefield acquired a general's title, but he evidently deserved it, for the king appointed the young man himself. The young man continued, even when no one replied to him, "Doesn't the king have some sort of… will? A document, a decree—something that can tell us who will take his place?"

"Surely if we had that, Alfred," Francis laughed humorlessly, "We wouldn't be so worried, would we?"

Alfred glared at the back of Francis' head. Herakles waited for the last of the generals to say something in the conversation, but he simply stood there, looming over his fellows. The silence weighed heavily on everyone—the incense made it worse.

Minutes passed like hours, and the king hardly made progress. He tried to choke out a few messages to his men, but every time he managed to rasp something, someone would falsely interpret it—especially as time wore on. Some of the court members claimed he said, "To the strongest," or "To my favorite." General Francis even claimed that he had said, "To Francis!" No one believed him.

At long last, the king finally managed to speak a complete sentence. His dry mouth opened, and the men leaned in to listen.

"I… I'm ready."

Those were the last words the king spoke before he finally passed into Paradise. Herakles squeezed his lord's hand, feeling it go cold and limp in his own. One of the court officials reached over and closed the king's eyelids, whispering some commemoration as he did so.

Just like that, the world had lost a hero to the histories.

"Long live the king," whispered the priest.

"Long live the king," echoed the room. "Long live King Antiqua."

As the priest cleaned and tidied the king's corpse, Herakles looked on with sad eyes. He was already composing an epic in his honor, as he would have wanted. His name would live on in the tales, even if his kingdom did not.

In the matter of the successor to the kingdom, Ludwig was quick to begin negotiations. He straightened to his full height, which was taller than most of the men in the room, and met the crowd with his steely gaze, "The generals will meet and discuss the future of the kingdom." He didn't have to say it twice: the room began to clear out, slowly.

When Herakles straightened and began to walk toward the door, however, Ludwig placed a large hand on his shoulder, "Stay, bard. I would have a witness document the exchanges made between the generals. Can you write?"

"Yes," answered Herakles.

"Good," said Ludwig. He was very efficient. "Please, sit."

Herakles did as he was told. Other than him, only the generals and one court official remained. The bard surveyed the room and made sure to refresh the names of the generals in his mind.

Ludwig stood in front, his hands clasped behind his back. He was so stout and noble—yes, he had the makings of a diligent ruler. He was a natural with a blade, and his armies deeply respected him for his punctuality and strictness in training. He hardly ever smiled, and he usually kept his conversations to a minimum. It was no wonder that he was the one to organize such a meeting among the generals.

Francis stood closest to him—he commanded the attention of anyone in the room due to his fanciful regalia and warm, charming personality. Perhaps not as stout and intimidating as Ludwig, Francis had all the silver-tongued charm that a ruler should have. Out of the four, he had the best command over rhetoric and the law, and no one liked getting into an argument with him because of it. He stroked his short beard—a habit of his when concocting a winning argument, or a decisive insult.

Two men stood next to Francis: Alfred was the taller, younger one, and his trusted confidant Arthur was the other. Technically speaking, Arthur was no general, and therefore had no business attending the meeting, but everyone knew that Alfred never went anywhere without the man. Herakles hid a smile as he watched the younger man gravitate naturally toward Arthur, like a lost puppy would to its master. He was young for a general, but his men vowed that he was the bravest in battle—a master of war strategy. Often outnumbered, Alfred's tactics won many a battle for the late King Antiqua.

Finally, the last general stood furthest away from them all. He hadn't moved or said a word since the king was brought to his deathbed. Herakles knew him the least, but he knew that his name was Ivan. He was the tallest man at court, and he was easy to spot in a battle. He smiled sometimes, but the smile never reached his eyes. He seemed a difficult man to read. Herakles felt a chill, only looking at him.

"What's going to happen to the kingdom?" Alfred asked, breaking the quiet. "We can't rule it."

"Oh, can't we?" Francis chimed, rounding on the young general. "Who else will, hm?"

"Oh, stop, Francis," Arthur snapped. The joking smile disappeared from Francis' face. "You know what Alfred meant. You can't exactly joint rule the kingdom. We need a system."

Ludwig crossed the room and grabbed the map from the wall. He placed it on the low, oak table in the middle of the room and waved the other men over. Herakles stayed where he was—just close enough to hear everything the men said and see what they discussed on the map. Ludwig smoothed a hand over the face of the parchment as he cleared his throat. He surely began every war council meeting this way.

"I think you all know what we must do," he told them gravely.

"You mean to split the kingdom, then?" asked Ivan. It was the first time Herakles had heard the man speak. His voice was different than he had expected. "And the four of us will each rule a province?"

The thought hit Herakles like a boulder. Cutting apart the kingdom? It was like cutting apart their late king and distributing his body parts to different people. The bard said nothing and kept his sorrow to himself. He missed his king already.

"That sounds fair," began Francis as he leaned on the table. "As long as appropriate shares go to each of us." His blue eyes glittered as his gaze passed over the youngest general. The contempt the men had for each other was well-known to the court. They often did little to hide it. Alfred glared and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What I think Francis means," Ludwig cut in, glaring at them both, "Is that we all should have an equal share. For now, no one province will be larger than the others."

The rest of the room went eerily quiet at his words—_for now_.

Carefully, Ludwig drew on the map with the quill on the table, sectioning out the kingdom into four roughly equal provinces. Once he had them drawn out, the generals immediately began squabbling over them, trying to decide who should receive what province. Herakles could barely keep up with them, and after a few minutes, he decided to abandon his note-taking until they came to a resolution.

"_Enough!"_ Ludwig bellowed. His voice boomed over the clamor and the room immediately went quiet again. "We can't get anywhere if we don't stop bickering."

After a pause, Francis chimed in next, "I have an idea." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim deck of cards that he was often found playing with. Arthur's face immediately twisted with confusion when he saw the cards.

"We are not playing _cards_ for a province!" he argued firmly. Alfred nodded approvingly, like Arthur had stolen the words from his own mouth. Francis snorted and began rifling through the deck.

"As amusing as that would be, Arthur, that isn't what I had in mind."

Francis pulled the four kings from the deck, laying them flat on the table. He then reached for the abandoned quill and he drew a symbol on each province of the map: a spade in the East province, a diamond in the South, a heart to the West, and finally, a clover in the North. Each symbol matched one of the kings from the deck.

_Ahh_—the table said with realization.

"Now, we'll each draw our lot," said Francis. Then he added, snidely, "Fairly."

Ludwig was first. He reached onto the table and plucked his card off of the table with confidence. He looked at it and nodded firmly, "Heart."

Ivan went next. The tall man stooped down and picked his card after thinking for a moment. "Clover," he said, with a small smile.

Alfred whispered something to Arthur, who pointed to one of the remaining cards on the table. His eyebrows knit as he thought about his retainer's choice, but then he nodded, as if he had planned on choosing it anyway. He lifted the card and said with earnest, "Spade!"

"Which leaves me with Diamond," said Francis, pulling his card from the table. "Fitting, no?"

The generals were quiet for a few moments, looking at each other. Almost immediately, the tone of the room changed. Peaceful negotiations suddenly shifted to suspicious hostility—it was almost like they knew what was going to happen in the time to come.

"This will last only until we find a new High King, yes?" he asked the group.

"Yes," the group echoed.

"Hopefully it will be sooner, rather than later," Ludwig finished, almost nervously.

After another brief pause, Francis broke the silence, as usual, "Well, men. I believe we have an announcement to make to the people, don't we?"

Herakles' eyes darted between the men swiftly, trying to gauge their reactions. They all looked eager to leave the room and put their plan into action. His eyes lingered on the cards on the table—though they hadn't played for provinces, he couldn't help but think of the entire ordeal as a game. Surely it would descend into that, Herakles thought. There was no helping it.

The game started when Francis pulled the deck of cards from his pocket, and the game was who would become High King. Of that, they were all certain.

What wasn't certain was who would win.


	2. The Kid King

**A/N:** Wow, thank you all so much for the favorites and follows! Reviews/Comments are highly appreciated, and I'll definitely need some reader feedback as these opening chapters go on. Please let me know what you think!

For reference: Clan Gafeluc = spades, Clan Herzen = hearts, Clan Klever = clovers, Clan Carreaux = diamonds

* * *

**Clan Gafeluc**

_Summer, 2nd Year of Kings Era_

* * *

_Thud, thud, thud, thud._

As the footsteps grew louder in the stone hall, the servants scurried about like mice—no one liked to stay in the vicinity when King Alfred's chief advisor was in an ill mood. They parted the way and clung to either side of the hallway. They tried to appear as if they were busy, but Arthur knew better.

And everyone knew that Lord Kirkland made a habit of _knowing_ things.

_Thud, thud, thud, thud._

His pace quickened now. Arthur's thick eyebrows furrowed as his eyes scoured the hallways like a predator. He huffed when he looked down another empty corridor. He secured the stack of letters and documents he had retrieved from the court scribe, Yao, under his arm. With every passing minute, Arthur further considered leaving all of the bloody things with one of the servants.

He rounded on the first pair of pages he saw.

"Where is the king?"

The boys flinched visibly at his tone. Arthur sighed sharply through his nose and gave him his best chastising glare instead, indicating his urgency. One of the boys stammered before stringing together a coherent sentence.

"He's in the courts, sir," he blurted, "Playing tennis with his brother. That's the last I saw him."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Arthur breathed, not entirely intentionally. He waved the boys off and stormed down the corridor, his cloak billowing behind him. When he found his king, it would take a great deal not to wring his hands about that stupid neck of his and throttle him. This was the very reason why the other courts didn't take their court seriously: while other kings exchanged political pleasantries and treaties, the King of Clan Gafeluc was typically found in the tennis courts or on the jousting sands.

It was no wonder the world had taken to referring to King Alfred as "The Kid King."

Arthur stationed himself just outside of the court, unmoving. He certainly wasn't going to shout to get his lord's attention. Oh _no_—he was going to enforce his "silence is golden" rule with Alfred to teach him a proper lesson. So instead, he simply tucked the letters comfortably under his arm and stood, watching. It worked nearly every time he used it.

The game was in Alfred's favor, from what he heard from the game caller.

"30-Love, His Majesty leads," said the caller, almost in boredom. The last few games surely went on as such. The king hated to lose. Arthur recognized the man from court—a friend of Alfred's and a page of Yao's, named Yong Soo.

"Don't tell me this is your best, Mattie!" Alfred hollered from his side of the court.

Matthew, the king's younger brother, rolled up his sleeves, "I'm only getting warmed up, Al." The smile on his face suggested that he was telling the truth. The two of them looked remarkably similar when they played against each other in a good game of tennis. Unfortunately for them, their match was about to end prematurely.

Alfred prepared to serve the next set, but when he finally noticed Arthur standing at the edge of the court, a grin burst onto his face. He lifted up an arm and waved at him, "Arthur! Come to watch me play?"

Ugh. It was so hard to stay angry with the king.

Arthur pursed his lips together and tried to give him a good glare from where he stood. He recalled why he stormed out of his office in the first place to find the king—_you have to yell at him Arthur, you have to scold him properly, you have to teach him a lesson, don't let him win with that stupid smile of his…!_

When he didn't answer, Alfred waved to Matthew and Yong Soo before jogging across the court to where Arthur adamantly stood. He had just broken a sweat—he must have played at least three games, or so. Arthur had seen him play enough to know that.

"Are you finally going to play a game?" the king laughed in a mere breath. "You've always mentioned that you used to play, but I don't think I've ever seen it for myself, y'know."

Arthur knit his eyebrows firmly, "Majesty…"

"You aren't mad, are you?" Alfred suddenly blurted, his smile gone from his face, now replaced with genuine worry. "Am I late for a meeting?"

That was all it took for Arthur's icy "silence is golden" treatment to melt away. He sighed gently and took Alfred by the arm, leading him away from the tennis courts and back into the castle—where he belongs, Arthur thought curtly to himself. For the first few steps, the king said nothing, but as they approached the castle, he groaned audibly.

"I _am_ late for a meeting, then…"

"Your Majesty, listen to me—"

"How many times do I need to ask you to call me Alfred? Everyone else does."

"I'm not everyone else, in case you haven't noticed," Arthur snapped, a little more quickly than he would have liked. He bit his tongue and sighed. This wasn't the way he wanted to approach their discussion. He paused as they neared the king's private quarters. "We'll discuss that later, all right? For now, Majesty, we have important matters to talk about. Shall I wait for you to get dressed?"

Alfred grinned. He briefly grabbed Arthur's hand and motioned his head toward his room, "You can talk while I get dressed, can't you, Arthur?"

Arthur felt his face burning already. Luckily the king had already entered his quarters, so he couldn't see the redness rising to his cheeks. Arthur looked down at his hand for a bit longer than he should have. Why did the king insist on being so… _physical_? And not just with Arthur, but with his whole court. If someone didn't know better, they might assume that Alfred was no king at all, but merely a friend to his people.

The king had already discarded his shirt before ducking behind the screen. Arthur tried to divert his gaze as he spoke, "Alfred," he said the name carefully, as it still sounded far too informal for a king. The king interpreted his pause as something else.

"I'm listening," he laughed jovially, still reaching for the vestments draped over the screen.

"Er, yes," Arthur stammered. "I have these messages from Yao—first of them addressed from King Ludwig."

"Ludwig?" Alfred said. His voice rang with curiosity. "I wonder what he wants… Usually we don't hear from Clan Herzen unless something is wrong."

"Nothing is wrong now, Majesty. He merely wants to thank you for the advisor you sent to him." _Without telling me about it,_ was the part that Arthur left unsaid.

"Oh, right, Kiku…" Alfred trailed off. He quickly darted out from behind the screen to fetch his vest from its stand in the corner of the room. He waved his hand in the air as he went back, "I'm sure he'll like it there. Ludwig is a good man and he runs a good court. Anything important in there? Summarize the good bits, would you, Arthur?"

The advisor rifled through the letters, complying with his lord's wishes. He had read them all in his office earlier, but few seemed vitally important. He held one announcement in his hands that stood out in his memory.

"An announcement from Clan Klever," Arthur said. "It seems King Ivan has chosen a queen—the Lady Elizaveta."

Alfred said nothing in reply—Arthur knew he wouldn't. Instead he simply hummed curtly and stepped out from behind the screen, obviously avoiding eye contact. He snatched his cloak from the rack and flung it over his shoulders. The entire atmosphere between them changed in that very moment. So much that the king was about to leave the room without saying anything else. Arthur quickly jumped to his feet and hurried after him.

"Alfred, if I may…"

"I know what you're going to say, Arthur," Alfred replied. He still didn't meet Arthur's gaze. It was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. "And no matter what you say, I'm _not_ looking for a queen."

"I'm not saying you need a queen this very instant," Arthur argued. "But now that King Francis and King Ivan both have one… It might be time for you to choose one for yourself. If not only for appearances."

"You know how I feel about 'appearances.' They don't matter."

Arthur sighed and clasped the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache brewing already. The two of them had clashed on the subject for the past few months, and they always left the discussion unfinished and unsettled. There was nothing to be done about it when the king would barely hear any propositions regarding the matter.

"Alfred," Arthur said sternly. Finally, he got his king's attention. "I'm merely suggesting this because I believe you are at… a disadvantage. You're young, Majesty. The other kings know that, and heaven forbid, they might use it against you. Having a queen at your side will show them how you've matured and that you take your title seriously."

"What, I'll suddenly gain a few years of maturity after I get married?" the king laughed. He was honestly amused at the thought, evidently. "I don't think that's how marriage works."

"Bloody hell, Alfred, I'm just _worried_ about you!"

The words echoed throughout the vacant hallway, and they stopped the king in his tracks. Arthur immediately regretted saying the words after they had already left his mouth. He avoided Alfred's eyes when he met them, and he stared at the floor as his cheeks flushed red. To his dismay, the king's mouth twitched into his goofy smile.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Arthur? You don't have to worry about me," he said nonchalantly. Arthur hated it when the king said that—it only made matters worse. The king crossed his arms over his chest and leaned down to meet Arthur's eyes again. "But if you _really_ want me to, I might consider it. Maybe before the next Assembly?"

He paused before continuing, with a playful laugh, "Though, to be fair, Arthur, I don't think I need a queen fussing over me when I've already got you!"

Arthur glared, flustered.

"You have a court to attend, Your Majesty," he stammered. He sounded far less forceful than he intended. Alfred's sunny grin wasn't helping anything, either. Heaven's sake, why was he so attractive?

"Yes, yes, I know…" the king insisted. "Lead the way. I promise I'll be serious now."

"That's what you always say, Alfred," Arthur muttered. "I hope this time you can manage it."


	3. Two Pair

**A/N:** Thanks again for the follows, it really means a lot to me! Bear with me as I set up these opening chapters. I promise things will get more heated when one of the kings takes center stage... :) (I'm sure you know who it is, hahaha.) Please enjoy Chapter 3!

* * *

**Clan Herzen**

_Summer, 2nd Year of Kings Era_

* * *

"_And on this night, my heart had said…"_

The words trailed as the poet thought. He tickled his chin with his favorite quill pen, mouthing the words before he said them aloud.

"Ahh, my heart had said…_ 'My life, for naught, if ye be dead,'…"_

The other writer sitting next to him gagged audibly as he said the words.

"Feliciano, you aren't bringing _that_ to court, are you? It's giving me a headache just hearing you compose the damn thing…" Lovino groaned. Feliciano couldn't help but smile. His brother never withheld the truth from him. "I thought poets wrote about grand tales of adventure and battle, anyway."

"We do, of course, brother!" said Feliciano. "But what do we truly live for? Compassion. Poetry. _Looove_."

Lovino rolled his eyes.

"The courts seem to like it well enough," Feliciano countered with a clever smile.

"Well enough to keep that big belly of yours fed, I suppose," his brother sighed. He shook his head and finished the letter he had been asked to compose for one of the ambassadors. Without pause, he tucked it away and fished out another sealed envelope. He rapped Feliciano's forehead with it. "I need you to do something for me."

Feliciano put on his best pout, "But I'm _tired_. I've been writing this poem all morning…"

Lovino hit him with the letter again, "Don't give me that, this is actually important." The younger of the two finally began listening. "This letter is for the king's brother, Lord Gilbert. It's from our troops in the north, petitioning for more supplies. If I weren't riding to the Embassy, I would deliver it myself."

The Embassy. Feliciano tried very hard to suppress a sly grin. He was certain that this urgent business at the Embassy involved a particular diplomat from Clan Carreaux… He kept his mouth shut, knowing that Lovino would rap him with that letter again at any opportunity. He eyed the envelope curiously before taking it in his hand.

"But you're a court scribe—shouldn't you be delivering this, Lovino?"

"You know how I feel about Lord Gilbert," said Lovino, grudgingly. And how he felt about King Ludwig, to boot, but that was a conversation for far more private quarters. "Besides, he might not even know the difference. Just do it, will you?"

"All right," Feliciano said. Then he smiled devilishly. "If it means that you can woo Ambassador Carriedo with that love letter of yours, then I'll do it for you!"

Lovino's cheeks burned red, and he punched his brother on the arm before turning on his heel in a huff, muttering something about "how he didn't write love letters." Feliciano's suspicions were correct, he imagined. He smiled as he watched his brother depart, and he gathered his ledger of poetry before setting off to find Lord Gilbert.

* * *

"War is expensive, Gilbert."

"Yes, _and?_ Would you rather have no money or lose Herzen?"

"It has been a year, brother, and there have been no problems between the clans," the king sighed.

"Ach. Don't get complacent," Gilbert argued back. His mouth stretched into a small grin after he took a swig of mead. He pointed a finger at his younger brother as he continued. "We know both of those idiots—Francis _and_ Ivan. They're big-headed, pompous assholes with complexes. And the only thing that idiot Alfred knows how to do is wave a big spear around and start fights. I'm sure one of them is going to start something before winter comes."

Ludwig's eyebrows sank into a scowl. Gilbert rolled his eyes—he always looked at him like that when he talked about the other kings like that. For being his baby brother, he acted far too much like their late father… He drank another large gulp of mead.

"I'm not complacent," Ludwig said sternly. He leaned over the table and scanned it with careful eyes. "They were cordial at the last Assembly. They haven't gathered any armies, or expressed interest in claiming the title of High King. Surely it is too early for them to act. Don't be a fool, brother…"

"You're _waiting_ for them to act, then?" Gilbert laughed. Ludwig glared, but he went on, sarcastically, "This isn't a tea party, Ludwig. No, what's foolish is playing defensively while the others prepare for an attack."

"Then what would _you_ have me do?"

The older brother finished his mead and set the mug aside before standing across from the king. He leaned on the table and scanned the map quickly, checking the few places that Ludwig had stationed troops. It wasn't enough. They would be crushed in mere days if either King Francis or King Ivan attacked.

"Brother, did you learn nothing from King Antiqua?" Gilbert finally asked.

Ludwig didn't meet his eyes.

"Glory. Honor. Victory in battle," the king recited. "That is what I learned." He spoke quietly—reverently. Gilbert had nearly forgotten the holy pedestal on which his brother placed the late king. He finally looked up. "But I cannot simply seize control of the other clans, I'll… I'll be seen as a tyrant, brother. A ruthless, war monger."

"If I may… Is that not how the histories will remember King Antiqua?"

The voice was quiet, the words spoken by neither Gilbert nor Ludwig. The two brothers whisked around and met the gaze of the gentle man in the corner. He had been forgotten by both of them. It was the writer: Kiku. The new advisor sent by that brat king, Alfred. Ludwig met the man's words with a confused scowl, but Gilbert grinned.

"Explain," Ludwig said.

Kiku stood from where he sat, bowing his head as he approached the king. While his voice was quiet, his words were bold, and he spoke without shame. "It is possible, I think, to be a powerful king, yet still loved by his people… As King Antiqua will be remembered."

For a brief moment, Gilbert saw the familiar light of realization in his brother's eyes. But he soon shook his head.

"Perhaps so, but I am no Antiqua. For the sake of the safety of our people, I won't risk initiating a war," said the king. "Only after treaties and pleasantries fail should a king turn his attention to warfare." He turned to Gilbert and scowled intently, "And _that_ I learned from our late, beloved King."

Gilbert restrained a groan. He still was unsure how _this_ man was on the throne, let alone given a general's title by Antiqua. If Gilbert were King of Herzen, he surely would have claimed the title of High King by now. He shook his head and crossed the room, pouring himself another pint of mead. There would be no convincing him, yet.

"I say this as your advisor, subject, and brother…"

"Yes, Gilbert?

"You're an idiot," Gilbert said plainly. However, he burst into a hearty laugh, which finally earned him a small smile from his brother. Kiku said nothing, but looked between them like he wondered if he should laugh as well. Gilbert drank a hearty swig before going on, "When that bastard Ivan decides to invade Herzen, don't say I didn't warn you!"

"I think you've had enough mead, brother."

"Ach. Whatever. Have another pint for yourself already."

As Gilbert poured the king a pint, the doors to his office opened.

* * *

Feliciano froze.

Three pairs of eyes stared back at him intently—unmoving. He held the letter tightly in his grip, almost fearing that he would crush the thing in his hands. Was he supposed to announce himself? The man standing at the door surely didn't do it for him. He stared back at the king's military advisor—he recognized him as Gilbert—and then his gaze shifted to the scribe that stood next to the king. Feliciano didn't recognize him at all.

He tried to avoid the stern gaze of the king altogether, but he couldn't. The king didn't have to do much to command attention from anyone; his sturdy gait and large frame was enough to intimidate most, and his steely eyes took care of the rest. The king straightened, and his fur cloak draped to the floor. He said nothing.

In an attempt to find the correct words to say, Feliciano managed to find the worst one: "Hello?" It seemed so informal—so wrong. He laughed nervously, "Er. Hello, _Majesty_."

The king scowled before simply replying, "Hello."

Gilbert suddenly burst into a patronizing laugh, "The court bard? _This_ is good… What, are you here to write us a poem?"

"Let him speak, brother," King Ludwig continued. "What is your business, bard?"

Feliciano was gracious for the king's mercy. He fished around for the right words for a smooth recovery. "Ah, forgive me, Your Majesty. I was sent to deliver this to the Master-at-Arms, Lord Beilschmidt."

Gilbert turned his head upon hearing his name and waved Feliciano over. He snatched the letter and quickly ripped it open, scanning it with disinterest. He summarized briefly, "The men in the North need more supplies…" He set the letter on the table. "I'll see to it. You're dismissed, bard. And tell that lazy brother of yours to do his own jobs, next time."

Feliciano knew better than to reply to that. Instead, he nodded his head and moved toward the door, but the king stopped him with a mere, "Stay, if you please." He stopped in his tracks and met the eyes of the king again. "I would ask a question of you, bard."

"And I would answer, Your Majesty," replied the poet, smiling.

The king paused, and leaned forward on the table in front of him. He appeared to struggle with finding the proper question to ask. Finally, he found the words. "There are many poems written about our kings of old," he began. "What is one quality that all great kings possess, according to the tales?"

_According to the tales?_ Feliciano wondered if the king asked him a trick question. Surely not, he told himself. The king was, after all, known for his honesty and straight-forward thinking, among other things. He tried to think of all the greatest epic poems that he could remember, and what each one valued in its king. Not all were ambitious, not all won many battles, not all were wealthy… All of the tales sang of superficial qualities.

"To be honest, Your Majesty… According to the tales, the greatest kings spoke in rhyme," he said with a playful grin.

He hoped the king would crack a smile at this, especially since Gilbert seemed to find that particularly funny. Much to his luck, the king's mouth twitched into a small smile. The dark-haired advisor standing next to the king was not so amused.

"If I may speak freely, however, I would say that no king is exactly the same," Feliciano explained more seriously. "Many of our best kings simply did what was best for their kingdom—like a father would for his children."

The room was quiet for a moment. He hoped said the right thing.

"I hope my answer pleases His Majesty…"

"Ah, yes, it does," the king replied. "Thank you."

Feliciano nearly breathed a sigh of relief, but he wanted to wait until he made it out of the meeting room, at least. He began moving toward the door, but the king stopped him again, briefly.

"Forgive me. I don't know your name, bard."

"Feliciano," he said proudly. "Feliciano Vargas, Your Majesty!"

King Ludwig nodded, "I look forward to hearing you perform in court, Feliciano."

Hearing the king say his name so casually made him smile. He bowed out of respect before leaving the room, at last. When he closed the door behind him, he breathed a great sigh and nearly collapsed against the wall. He wasn't sure how the nobles could stand it—the king had only put him on the spot for one question and his heart was already pounding in his chest.

He needed to take a long nap…

* * *

After a long day of meetings and court hearings, Ludwig finally found himself alone with his older brother. They rarely got the chance anymore—Ludwig's duties as King always kept him busy. So when they managed to find a few hours for themselves, they usually spent it drinking and discussing more private matters.

Ludwig sat down in front of the hearth, next to Gilbert. They had said nothing for a while. While it had been a long day for the both of them, Ludwig knew that something was wrong. Finally, he was the one to break the silence.

"Gilbert…"

His brother glanced over at him and smirked, "If this is a lecture, I don't want to hear it."

"I'm serious, brother," Ludwig insisted. "All of this about King Ivan and your desire to invade Klever… Does this have something to do with Lady Elizaveta?"

His suspicions had been correct. Gilbert's smirk faded, and he stared into the hearth, swishing the leftover mead in his mug. He obviously wasn't aware of it, but his silence spoke volumes. Ludwig waited for his brother to speak again.

"What about her?" Gilbert questioned nonchalantly.

"You two were close, once. And now she's..."

"Close?" the other brother scoffed. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. In case you don't remember, she gave me a concussion once after she hit me with a damn frying pan. Who hits someone with a _frying pan?_ Bah. Good riddance to a nuisance!"

Ludwig scowled. His brother often deflected his true feelings with his dry bouts of sarcasm. Gilbert simply grinned and shook his brother's arm.

"You worry too much, West!" he said, using the ridiculous nickname he had crafted for Ludwig. Sometimes he used the even more fanciful 'King of the Pitiful West Province,' but he often stuck with the truncated version. "Believe me, I'm only telling you to get rid of Ivan because I hate him, and I think you can do it. But hell, that could be the mead talking."

He laughed again, weakly.

Ludwig took a drink from his own mug and decided to let it go.


	4. The Flower Queen

**A/N:** Wow, it's been a while since the last _FoaK_ update, hasn't it? School started back up for me, and I've got to get back in my writing groove, haha. Thanks again for the follows, favorites, and reviews! They really keep me going. c: Please enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Clan Klever**

_Summer, 2nd Year of Kings' Era_

* * *

The bear met the queen's eyes squarely and gave a low snarl. Its haggard breath appeared in puffs in the chilly morning air. It was bleeding, it was tired, and it was using the last of its energy to stand. The queen wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her gloved hand and knitted her thin eyebrows.

Blood. It was unimportant to her now. She had to kill the creature for the sake of her people, even if that meant that she would die trying.

"Come at me, then," she breathed in a low voice. The queen coiled her fingers around the handle inside her heavy shield. She was ready. The bear had gotten the best of her earlier when it clawed at her side, but she was ready now. The giant, black bear growled at her before roaring angrily. The saliva spewed from its mouth—it was angry. The queen had half a mind to roar back. She didn't fear the beast—she was angrier. This was the beast that had killed a family of peasants.

"Majesty," one of her knights began. The queen had almost forgotten that he was still there. She could have sworn that she sent him away long ago, due to his injury. "Q-Queen Elizaveta…"

"Stay back, Timo," she commanded in a calm, but firm voice. She didn't tear her gaze away from the bear's. "You're injured. Stay where you are. This beast is not so strong that I cannot handle it on my own."

As if provoked by the queen's bold statement, the bear suddenly reared on its hind legs and charged at Elizaveta. She ducked out of the way of the clumsy, wounded bear and readied her sword. Luckily, Timo had moved to a safer location. When the beast's shoulder was exposed, Elizaveta gripped her sword in her hand and plunged it through the thick fur. The bear wailed and fell to the earth in a heap. It was almost dead, now.

Elizaveta whipped out her long dagger and tightened her fingers around the hilt. She had to work fast. With a confident hand, the queen descended on the fallen bear and sunk the dagger into its throat. At last, the beast drew its final, strangled breath.

The forest was silent in those few moments. Save for Elizaveta's tired pants, the rest of the woods were quiet. The queen felt her heart pounding inside of her chest, and for the first time in a while, her mouth curved into a small smile. She had gone too long without a sword and shield in her hands. It felt wonderful to practice her most beloved pastime again.

She didn't need to be on a throne. She needed to be on a battlefield.

"Queen Elizaveta," said Timo. His voice quivered with worry. "You're hurt, Majesty… Let me assist you back to the castle."

"We'll assist each other," she insisted. "You're injured as well, Sir Timo." Carefully, Elizaveta got to her feet. She reached for her sword and pulled it free from the bear before reaching down to do the same with her dagger. "Where are you injured?"

"My leg, Majesty."

"Lean on me, then, and we'll support each other, all right?"

Her reassuring smile was met with a worried nod, but no arguments. Elizaveta winced as they walked together. The blood from the wound on her hip bled profusely, and it soaked her tunic through. The members of the court would be so cross with her—not only for leaving the castle unattended to fight a bear, but for soiling her new clothes. They fretted over the most ridiculous things. She smirked as she thought of what a certain bespectacled court lord might say… She pushed the thought from her mind, instead focusing on getting her and Sir Timo back to the village.

* * *

They were greeted with warm cheers and grateful applause as they re-entered the village. Elizaveta couldn't keep the smile off of her face. She heard her name echo through the crowd of townspeople—_'Maker bless Her Majesty!' _and _'Long live Her Majesty!' _She raised an arm and waved at her people.

That was the job of a queen, wasn't it? To keep peace and order while the king was away? Her cheeks flushed red at all of the praise she was receiving for merely doing her duty.

"The beast is dead," Elizaveta assured them. "And to ensure this never happens again, I will station a regiment outside of the forest."

More celebratory applause and cheers rang out—_Maker bless Queen Elizaveta!_

After the cheers died down, a young girl ran forward from the crowd. She gathered her ragged skirt in her hands and bowed low before the queen. When she rose, she proffered a small, red flower to Elizaveta. She didn't make eye contact.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she murmured. "Were they still here, my family would thank Her Majesty as well."

Elizaveta accepted the flower with a bloodied, gloved hand. Her eyebrows knit with worry as she watched the girl wipe her cheeks with the back of her hand, obviously trying to stifle her tears in front of royalty. Slowly, the queen knelt in front of the young girl and tried to meet her eyes.

"Do you have any family left, my dear?"

The girl wiped her cheeks again and nodded her head. "My uncle and aunt, Majesty. B-But they went to Herzen to earn more money to buy food with."

The queen frowned. This was a story shared by many other peasants of Klever. She tried a smile.

"Then you'll stay with my ladies-in-waiting until they return," she insisted.

The girl's eyes went wide. "At the castle?"

"Of course," Elizaveta replied. "I'll have a courier sent to your family in Herzen."

The girl finally returned her smile and whispered a gentle "Bless you, Majesty," before scurrying off to presumably gather her things. Timo had already left to fetch their horses. Elizaveta looked at the flower that now rested on the palm of her hand. She gently put the stem in her mouth so she could pull her soiled gloves off of her hands. She tore the stem in half and carefully wove the top of the flower into her hair.

"Are you ready, Your Majesty?" asked Timo. The color was slowly returning to his face, and the queen was thrilled to see that he was smiling at last.

"Yes," Elizaveta said, returning his smile. "Once my new ward returns, we'll set off for the castle."

* * *

Lord Roderich von Edelstein had one job.

Of course, the rest of the court officials knew that wasn't exactly true, considering that he tended to take on jobs that belonged to other people so that he could finish tasks to his liking. But his first and utmost important job was to know the whereabouts of Queen Elizaveta at all times.

A job that he managed to fail before the 10th hour of the morning.

"Did she _say_ where she was going?" the steward demanded, massaging his temple.

"N-No, my lord," stammered Eduard. "She only said that she would return before afternoon."

"A-And she looked like she was in a hurry!" Ravis chimed in.

"So you mean to say," Roderich said, slowly, "that the Queen left the castle early this morning, alone, fully armed, and ready for combat… And you didn't think to ask her what on earth she was doing?"

The two men seemed to shiver in their boots. Roderich held up his hand to silence them before they could even say anything.

"Forget I asked," he sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose—he could feel a headache coming on already. The court would be infuriated upon hearing the news, and even worse, he would have to send a message to King Ivan's traveling entourage. The King would not be pleased. In a fit of exasperation, Roderich waved Eduard and Ravis away.

He had yet to question King Ivan's sisters, Princesses Katyusha and Natalia. For everyone's sake, he prayed that they had some input regarding the queen's whereabouts. Roderich hurried through the hallway and to the door of the princesses' quarters. He nodded his head to the young lady at the door, who immediately went to inform the princesses of his arrival.

"If his lordship could wait for a few minutes…" the stewardess began. "The princesses are focused on their studies, and won't see anyone."

"This matter is urgent, and concerns the queen," Roderich insisted. "I must speak with the princesses."

Too impatient, he bowed his head once and stepped past the stewardess at the door. The young lady called out a warning to her mistresses, but by the time she had, it was too late. Roderich had already rounded the corner and stepped into the room.

Queen Elizaveta stood between Katyusha and Natalia, and it appeared as though they were dressing a wound on her leg. Roderich didn't get a good look for himself, for once he realized that the queen was wearing only her undergarments, his face flushed and he quickly turned away.

"M-Majesty…!" he gasped, covering his mouth. His face was warm with embarrassment. Was it treason to see that queen in her underwear? He didn't want to think about it. "I… I, er… You must forgive me. H-Had I known, I…"

Surprisingly, Katyusha and Elizaveta were both chuckling over his abrupt entrance, and the princess quickly ushered the queen behind the dressing screen. Natalia shot Roderich a poisonous glare and said nothing.

"There is no sneaking into the castle with you around, is there, Lord Roderich?" the queen said jovially.

Roderich refused to make eye contact with her, especially now.

"No, Majesty," he said nervously. "Please excuse me, Majesty, I shall return shortly…"

"No, stay, my lord, I'll only be a moment," Elizaveta chirped from behind the screen. And as she said, in a moment she appeared again, wearing a proper dress. She smoothed the front of her skirt and limped to the closest chair. With a smile, she nodded to Katyusha and Natalia, who left the room promptly.

"Your Majesty, are you hurt?"

"I had a skirmish this morning. It's nothing, I promise."

"A skirmish? Whatever were you doing?"

Elizaveta sighed and stared into her lap.

"Forgive me, if you would rather not say, Your Majesty," Roderich replied. "I can respect your privacy, if you wish it."

"A queen's life can't be private, can it?" Elizaveta asked with a dry laugh. It was a rhetorical question, but Roderich itched to answer it: _No, it can't._ Instead, Lord von Edelstein held his tongue and waited for the queen to continue. "Another bear attacked the village this morning. I couldn't send a regiment because I wasn't sure it would get there in time."

"I thought we had a regiment stationed there already?"

"Sir Timo is not a _regiment_, Lord Roderich."

"Ah," replied von Edelstein. "No, you're right, it's not."

"Have you looked outside the castle walls, my lord?" Elizaveta asked, looking him directly in the eyes. Her eyes glistened with an emotion that Roderich couldn't discern. "Our people are starving. Our crops are failing. They are so weak that they cannot defend themselves from the beasts of the forests."

_And our king has been gone for weeks,_ thought Roderich.

"Does the court expect me to stay inside and weave tapestries on a silver throne while the people suffer?" the queen urged. "If this court and this king expect that of me, then I must tell King Ivan that he has chosen the wrong queen."

Heavy silence lingered between them before one of them spoke again.

"But it's so dangerous," Roderich breathed. Sure, she came back slightly scathed this time, but no one could be certain that she would return alive the next time she went gallivanting with a sword in hand.

"We live in danger every day," said Elizaveta. Then, she added in a softer voice, "We are living in the midst of a struggle, Lord Roderich. Someone will claim the title of High King before the year is over. A queen should be prepared for an invasion, don't you think?"

She was a soldier in ladies' garments—Roderich respected that.

"Yes, Majesty," he told her truthfully. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves, hm? With the king away seeking aid, you have many duties to tend to. One at a time."

Elizaveta smiled. "Fair enough, Lord Roderich. As long as I am still allowed to spar with the other knights for practice."

Roderich sighed in defeat. "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Good," the queen said in reply. "Now, while you're here, my lord, I need you to draft a letter. Addressed to a family in Herzen…"

* * *

The king's horse came to a halt.

"We're here, M'jesty," said Sir Berwald.

"Shall we go in?" asked Toris. "They seem to be lowering the gate for us."

A smile touched King Ivan's lips as he looked up at the fortress that was Castle Carreaux. The people weren't lying when they said that King Francis liked to live extravagantly as possible. Surely he could help, Ivan thought.

"Yes," the king replied. "Let's go. And remember—" he rounded on his knights, "we won't leave until we have what we came for, yes?"


End file.
